


The Logistics of Inter-System Transit

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Brothers, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Gen, Humor, Rex is everyone's dad, Space nerf wars, brothers being brothers, gen - Freeform, space roadtrips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23425900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: Sure there's probably a war going on somewhere.  But someone once said 'Space is vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big' and honestly, the vode spend way more time trucking between fronts than they do in actual combat.Endless Brothers.  Endless roadtrips.  They entertain themselves.
Series: Soft Wars [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775
Comments: 247
Kudos: 1257





	1. The Mythosaur

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely connected to the 'Rex Adopts a Jedi' universe.
> 
> Thanks to someone-hug-obiwan over at Tumblr for the idea!

There’s a tiny, plastoid mythosuar sitting about an inch above Rex’s left eye. It’s a cheap thing, a couple of credits at most, no bigger than his thumb to the first joint and painted a uniform, Coruscant Guard Red. For a moment Rex stares cross-eyed at it, admiring both the ingenuity and the sheer beskar _balls_ on those boys. And it’s one of those boys, Rex has a feeling about it. On one hand, it’s a good sign that their newest troopers are starting to feel more at home here. It shows they’re recovering nicely from the cluster that was Rishi. On the other hand…

Rex casually removes his bucket and tucks it neatly under one arm. Across the bridge, General Skywalker perks up at the tiniest deviation in what has become a tediously repetitive few days. He’s already smiling the maliciously gleeful smile of someone who knows someone is in trouble and for once it’s not them. Skywalker’s also starting to feel at home here; Rex is quite satisfied.

Skywalker’s the first, the Force making his instincts much faster than any of the other brothers. But they’re all learning to take their cues from him and there’s a wave of awareness that ripples through the gathered troops. In only a few heartbeats, Rex has every single vod’s attention. The older ones are much better at hiding it, and Rex idly makes a note in the back of his mind to keep an eye on the ones most discreet.

Now. Who’s the culprit?

Rex runs a calm eye around the room, clocking micro-motions all but invisible under their armor to someone not used to it, noting every nervous shift. Ponds would be horrified at how _obvious_ most of them are.

Who is it? Droidbait? No, it’s never Droidbait. He’s always, always the dangle. They should change that up some day. Rex isn’t about to suggest it.

“Cutup,” he settles on, and more than the way Cutup freezes like a moormouse before a tooka, it’s Fives’ choked off giggle that gives him away.

“Sir.” Cutup sketches a handbook-perfect salute and stands at attention. Rex watches him evenly for a moment, but only a moment. No, Rex is far too experienced to let this devolve into a staring match just now. You don’t get anywhere like that; brothers are much too stubborn.

Rex leaves him at attention and ambles his way to the beleaguered caff dispenser stuffed in a corner that had once sported a tertiary star map correlator. The caff dispenser, Rex will argue if anyone ever decides to challenge it, has been an order of magnitude more effective in raising productivity.

He dresses two cups, one black and a little sweet, one as pale as general Kenobi with enough sweetner to legally qualify as sandpaper. The first he takes a quiet sip of, humming in enjoyment. The second he carefully places on the nav terminal next to Cutup. The silence on the bridge is thrumming in gleeful anticipation. Cutup remains painfully stiff at attention. Rex enjoys his cup of caff.

It’s a great blend. He makes it a point to not ask Jesse where it came from. Rex would probably be required to report it.

He lets himself slowly enjoy the first quarter or so of the cup. Fives finally remembers he can turn off his vocoder, so only his shaking shoulders give away his giggle fit. Rex tips his head to the other steaming cup. “That’s for you private.”

Cutup holds attention, doesn’t even twitch. Good man.

“Sir I do not require caffeine at this time, sir,” he tries, optimistically.

Skywalker cackles. They really need to get him a bucket. It won’t make him actually discreet, but it’d something better than bareface anyway.

“You do,” Rex corrects mildly. “You’ll need the energy. For the laps you’re about to run around the hangar in full kit.”

Rex takes a sip and _now_ is when he holds eye contact. _‘Ask me’_ his stare dares. _‘Ask me why you’re being punished.’_ A second passes, two, and Cutup makes the wise choice to not play this game on a field Rex controls. His sound of defeat is all consonants, and music to Rex’s ear.

Cutup rips off his bucket and slams back the full cup of caff like a shot. “ _How_ sir?! How do you _always_ know?” Rex salutes with his cup. He carefully does not look smug. Cutup growls another handful of garbled sounds.

“Full kit,” Rex breezily reminds him as he storms his way to the door. Cutup makes a third, beautifully satisfying sound of aggravation and snatches the unloaded Z6 a smug, smug Hevy hands him. It goes slung over Scratch’s loaned med pack and ratcheted down in place. He’s a well-equipped pack-eopie, their Cutup. “I’m sure someone will be down to tell you when you’re done.”

The consonants this time are dangerously close to ‘kark’ and a list of domesticated animals. Rex, ever gracious in victory, doesn’t decipher them.

Rex drains his cup and levels the milling brothers on the bridge a bland look. “As you were,” he orders and ignores the disappointment at the show being over. Skywalker catches his eye and tosses his head in challenge. Rex smiles blandly. As if he’d be so predictable.

He peels up the adhesive pasting the tiny plastoid mythosuar to the inside of his bucket and pops the toy in hip storage. He has no plans to try to plant it on Skywalker, even if most would assume that would be the most natural escalation.

No, Rex is hardly a small-time thinker. He has a meeting with Kix at 1300.

* * *

_Find_ _the_ _mythosuar, hide_ _the_ _mythosuar._ _Don’t get caught hiding the mythosuar._ _No one is exempt from the mythosuar._


	2. Trust Exercises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training a Padawan is a Team Effort

“Y’know I don’t think this is actual training.”

“This is absolutely actual training,” Skyguy lies. Ahsoka glares hard. “Ask Rex. Hey Rex, tell Snips this is actual training.”

Rex looks up from his holopad and blandly holds his SO’s stare for a long moment. Skyguy’s grin doesn’t waver. Rex rolls his eyes and goes back to whatever he’s reading. “Just go with it kid, he’ll sulk for days otherwise.”

“See Rex agrees with me,” Skyguy chirps. Damn it, Ahsoka had been counting on Rex to take her side. Ahsoka grabs the nearest brother.

“Sorry Echo this is an emergency,” she says.

“Not a problem,” he assures her as she commandeers his comm.

“Kix save me,” she yells, before Anakin swoops in and wrestles her away.

“Belay that Kix, I promise everything is foam padded she’ll be fine.” Ahsoka glares harder, perilously close to sulking. “Aw come on Snips, it’ll be fun.”

“You have a ring of brothers _shooting at me_ ,” she yells.

“It’s foam padded!” Skyguy twirls a gust blaster and pips a foam dart off her montrals. “See? Perfectly safe. And if you get good at this they won’t even hit you!”

Hardcase is over in one corner waiting on Ratchet and Socket to put final finishing touches on massive the foam dart repeater cannon they built for him when they found out what Skyguy planned. It’s pretty intimidating, and Hardcase looks way too enthusiastic for Ahsoka’s comfort. Hevy’s in another corner, gleefully loading every pocket and case on his kit with palm-sized plastoid glitter pellet bombs.

Jesse’s leaning on the wall, bucket on and perfectly at ease. Ahsoka doesn’t want to know what size pot he’s got running.

Ahsoka returns her dubious gaze to her master. She folds her arms mulishly. “If this is an actual no kidding training exercise, then what are the learning objectives,” she challenges.

“Anticipating and dodging or deflecting projectiles; navigating unsteady terrain; teamwork; communication; trust,” Rex narrates. “Upon completion of this module, cadet should be able to successfully demonstrate the ability to coordinate with and defend a four man squad in order to complete an objective.”

Ahsoka stares, betrayed. “This is actual training.”

“But funner!” Skyguy interjects.

Rex taps his holopad, and Ahsoka recognizes the sticker the color of her montral stripes on the back that marks it as the Record of Ahsoka. “The general may be liberal in his implementation but yes, this is training.” He shrugs apologetically. “If it helps, you’re ahead of schedule. I hadn’t planned on you being this far along for another month. I’ll have to start shifting the modules to keep up.”

“It doesn’t help,” she sniffs. That’s a lie; it does. The tips of her lekku curl a little in pleasure, and Rex gives her his eye smile.

“Up up up Snips,” Anakin herds her into the middle of the gym. “We’re wasting oxy standing here, boots growing weeds.” He hands her a visor with a surface-mounted comm and a pair of foam bats. They squeak when she taps them together.

“I greatly disapprove of everything about this,” she informs him primly, because Jedi aren’t allowed to hate.

“Noted. Alright gentlemen, we know the rules?”

“Sir, a brother with the ball can’t stand still for more than 5 seconds. Goal of Team Those Karking Shinies is to get the ball to the outside of the running track,” Echo rattles off. “Goal of Team Decrepit Creaky Old Farts is to prevent that.”

“Can we have different team names,” Attie mutters.

“No,” Cutup snorts.

“Brothers on the sidelines will be aiming projectiles at Team Shiny. The Commander’s job is to prevent as many as possible from hitting. The scorer droids will deduct a point for every impact.”

Hardcase racks his cannon’s slide twice and cackles.

“And the Commander isn’t allowed to touch the floor,” Echo finishes. He shifts, a little awkward. “Uh, and that’s everything, sir.” No one mocks him. One of these days he’s going to stop expecting it.

“Thanks Echo,” Skywalker says and claps his hands. “Alright vode to your starting positions! Snips, up you go.”

Ahsoka grips Droidbait’s offered hand, plants her right toes in the back of the knee he’s bent, presses up to plant her left toes in the curve of his waist and pushes to stand on his shoulders. “Alright there DB?” she asks.

“Just great sir,” he replies, almost bouncing in his excitement. He grips her ankles to steady her, only letting go once she’s gotten her balance. Cutup and Echo flank him just a bit behind, and Fives falls forward to point.

“Comms check everyone,” she says and taps her comms on. “Fives?”

“One of these days we’re gonna have to let that go,” Fives grumbles, clear against her montrals. The others chime in a clear and she’s got all hands on comms.

“I’ll call before I jump to anyone,” she says. “Keep your knees soft when you hear that and maybe we won’t fall over _every_ time. Okay we’re read- _Rexter!_ ”

Rex has calmly reloaded Skyguy’s gust blaster back to full capacity, handed it off to him and is in the process of checking one over for himself.

“Training is the responsibility of the entire command team,” Rex replies in a lofty voice and lines his sights squarely center mass on Droidbait. His grin is smugger than Skyguy’s. “Don’t worry Commander. I have it on good authority this will be fun.”

“ _Begin!_ ”


	3. Mammalian Bonding Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who thought Jesse should be considered Responsible? Was that a joke? Jesse's still waiting for the punchline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned we all love Tup's manbun?

“Is it supposed to look like the picture?”

Jesse pauses midstep, canteen halfway to his mouth. Theoretically, _theoretically_ , since the Captain convinced General Skywalker to promote Jesse to officer, Jesse is supposed to be adhering to some sort of illusion of responsibility. Theoretically, a responsible officer should investigate what sounds like an entire squad of brothers way down deep in the underpinnings of the ship. Theoretically, an officer could surmise that a squad way down here is probably Up To Shenanigans.

But _he’s_ all the way down in the belly of the ship himself, and it’s not exactly water in his canteen, is it? And it’s not like he _asked_ to be made officer. Whoever thought he’d be a Good Influence For The Troops was clearly on something stronger than the stuff engineering produces in their secret still that Jesse certainly knows nothing about and certainly wasn’t _just_ visiting.

(And he most certainly doesn’t visit enough to know that Shifty and Tinker must have had done something new with this batch, that there’s a weird twist under the taste that Jesse is still trying to decide if he likes or not. _That_ sort of talk might suggest he’s something of a connoisseur. He will deny any such allegation. He takes another sip. What _is_ that? Did they add a bitter?)

“Owww,” someone moans. Not just ‘someone’. Jesse recognizes that tone of pained resignation. He sighs. Damn it, shenanigans he can overlook but if someone’s picking on Tup and he didn’t step in he’d never hear the end of it.

“Are we up to something I’m gonna have to write-up?” He asks, stepping down into the side hall. He tries for Captain Rex’s or Kix’s sternness. He just sounds completely done. “Because I really hate paperwork and I don’t tend to be real nice to folks who make more of it.”

There’s a flurry of whispers, but no audible response. Great, this is going to take _all_ afternoon.

A final corner and he he comes upon… well. All of Domino, it looks like, plus both the shinies they’ve adopted. They’re all looking more of that embarrassed sort of shady than that just-got-caught sort of shady. Suddenly Jesse is feeling a marginally better about deciding to investigate.

“Alright boys and Fives.”

“ _Hey!”_

“What am I looking at?”

Tup’s the only one seated, place of honor it looks like right smack in the middle of the group. He looks rumpled, put out, and oddly fluffy. Huh. Jesse takes a swig from his canteen for patience. “Anyone? Anyone? Hevy.”

Hevy twitches, but gamely steps forward.

“Just some experimenting sir,” he prevaricates. Jesse tries that thing that Rex does, where he just kind of gives you the ripcord and then casually waits in silence for you to jump.

He _could_ have targeted Dogma instead of Hevy. That’d be easy money. Too easy. Even the most shameless gambler would have felt bad about it.

“You gonna leave me to guess Corporal?” Jesse finally asks. Guess he just doesn’t have that silent smolder thing that Rex has going for him. Or the patience. Shame. “Because lemme tell you, whatever you got going on here, what I’m gonna come up with is gonna be much worse.”

Hevy sighs a soul-weary sigh. Damn. Jesse’s sure he’s way too young for that kind of crap. He’s command track for sure, no one else has that air of decanted-already-an-old-man.

“Tup wanted to try new hairstyles.”

“ _Tup_ wanted to, did he?”

“Yessir,” Tup chimes in firmly. Jesse holds his gaze, searching. Tup is calm, a little annoyed but not all worked up. Good. Rex has Opinions about troopers Making Tup Do Things.

“Right. And you decided to trust your scalp to these moof-milkers?”

Tup’s annoyance ratchets up. “I was under the impression that _someone_ had more experience than they have demonstrated so far.”

“Look,” Cutup argues, “what I _said_ was it couldn’t be hard. Echo found videos!”

“I think the instructions skipped some steps,” Echo says mournfully, betrayed. Fives hovers over his shoulder, both trying to make sense of whatever it is Echo’s got on his holopad. “I know we followed all the directions.”

Jesse eyes their handiwork so far. “Assume you weren’t going for dandelion chic.”

“ _Dandelion!_ ” Tup shoots to his feet and whirls on Cutup. “You said it was _a bit frizzy_!”

“It is! Just. All of it. All over.”

Tup makes an inarticulate noise of rage and leaps. “Kot1,” Hevy grumbles. Droidbait and Dogma both tap their bracers.

Dogma turns pleading eyes on Jesse. Damn, Jesse cannot _wait_ for Rex to figure out how to break the kid of the notion that all officers shit kyber. “Do you have any advice sir?”

“Private. No, vod2. Ner vod3. I’m gonna say this with all the love in my shriveled black heart.” Jesse claps a hand on his shoulder. Dogma looks confused. “Vod, I am an extremely bald man.”

Dogma flushes a blotchy red. Jesse immediately feels like a soggy sock heel after a 10 hour march with a leaking boot. Damn it, this Responsible shit is contagious isn’t it? Kix at least could have warned him.

He pats the trooper’s shoulder a couple more times. “Good instinct though,” he praised, hoping he’s not coming across as awkward as he feels. “If your squad can’t handle something, absolutely bump that up the chain. You just got the wrong officer this time.” Dogma nods, looking less like Jesse danced Dha Werda Verda4 on his tail.

Behind Dogma, both Fives and Echo battlesign enthusiastic _‘Excellent!’_ _s_ at him, the shits. Jesse is absolutely going to volunteer to help Rex with their next training session.

There’s one thing still niggling at the back of Jesse’s brain. There’s some quiet instinct that says ‘no, no you don’t want to know’ but this once it’s completely drowned out by his irrepressible curiosity.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re doing this down in the tunnels,” he muses out loud.

“Well sir,” Dogma pipes up. Jesse watches as the world moves almost in slow motion, as every single one of the other brothers start forward as if trying to stop him. Oh no. Oh no this is going to be _Reportable_. “The instructions were very clear about how bad sonics were for manageability, and all of us already used our water allotment for the week.”

You should have just walked away you karking meatbread.

Slowly Jesse’s eyes finds the, yes that’s a hose. Follows it up and yep, that is definitely an illicit tap into a water line.

Engineering rules the water allotment with the manic dedication of a cult. They’ve got everything optimized to the closest nanoliter. Messing with their carefully constructed ecosystem is a Big Fucking Deal, and they will absolutely make you _pray_ that you somehow manage to march ahead before they get their hands on you.

But _every_ brother knows that. It’s part of the on-boarding brief. Tinker periodically roams the barracks and menaces random vod with a spanner if there’s so much as a dripping pipe somewhere on that level. Domino plays hard, but they’ve never been _complete_ morons so why…

Oh.

Oh no.

Jesse looks up with tired realization. That pipe. It’s not a main. It’s not stock. It’s aftermarket, painted hastily to blend in with the rest of the ducting to a casual glance, because that’s all it ever has had to stand up to.

Domino illicitly tapped into the illicit pipe engineering installed, illicitly siphoning off water that’s intended to serve engineering’s illicit still.

Fuck.

Fuck the paperwork for this is going to be a _bitch._

“I hate every single one of you,” he informs them. He drains his canteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Strength. If this is your first time dabbling in this little universe of mine, know that this is an in-joke that started [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407009). Back  
> 2\. Brother. Back  
> 3\. My Brother. Back  
> 4\. A traditional Mandalorian war chant with accompanying dance. Read more at [the Wookiepedia page](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Dha_Werda_Verda). Back  
> 


	4. Ethnolinguistics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahsoka gets hand-on examples for her Greater Republic Cultural Preservation homework

“No not like that.”

Why is Fives in the officer’s lounge, Jesse wonders. Why is he the eighth trooper that had peeked in here? Why is _Jesse_ the one who has to tell disappointed faces that no, Ahsoka can’t ‘come play sabacc/dejarik/cu’bikad/murderball’ until she’s finished her Greater Republic Cultural Preservation homework? Who thought this was a good idea?

One of the many mysteries of the universe.

“See _this,_ ” Fives positions Ahsoka’s right hand against her brow. “That’s a ‘Yes sir,’. If you do it like you just did it’s still a ‘Yes sir’, but with a ruder twist. More ‘you and I both know I’m not actually going to do that but for plausible deniability I’m pretending to answer you politely sir’. It’s how your fingers shift.”

Well, Jesse figures, it’s technically Cultural.

“This is pretty complicated,” Ahsoka observes, practicing moving her hand between a Yessir and a Kark-You-Kindly-Sir. Fives shrugs.

“I guess? No more complicated than Basic. We’ve just always done it.”

Actually, Jesse’s got reliable intel that Commander Cody, back when he was still Cadet Cody, had come up with the Kark-You-Kindly salute as a way to subtly insult trainers without getting his ass beat. Commander Bly’d shared that story with Jesse personally, after Jesse had watched him flick it at General Vos.

Funny how that happens.

“What you’re wanting is to turn your hand completely, back of the hand outward, fingers bent inwards, and tap twice right about _there_. That’s more of a ‘yeah, vod’. But only twice. Three times, especially if you do it _here_ is ‘yeah, yeah, vod’ with a side helping of ‘I got it now shut up’.”

Their padawan runs through Yessir, Kark-you-sir, Yep, Get-outta-my-face in quick succession, memorizing the differences with the kind of speed that the brothers had to have been engineered to have.

Damn their girl is brilliant.

She runs through it again, perfectly precise. Fives grins and she matches it, pleased.

“Okay, now how do I curse.”

Jesse is so damn proud of her. He slides his way to their huddle, because Fives is great and all but for this they need a _professional_.


	5. Ransomware

Kix has one particular mug that is his favorite. It is the only mug in medical, perhaps even on the ship, that has literally nothing on it. Plain white, conveyor-line commercial, no strange shapes or pointless inspirational quotes or tendency to change color to remind you that your caff is now ice cold and disgusting but you’re going to drink it anyway because you don’t have time to swap for fresh. He already _knows_ that; he doesn’t need a colorful, cheerfully depressing reminder.

Kix is very fond of his mug. Right now he might like his mug more than he likes any of his brothers.

“How do they keep getting _in_ here!” Jesse wonders. He’s the first suspect on Kix’s list, naturally, because he is an actual _child_ , and also they’re dormmates. But he does seem entirely too enthusiastic digging through the code on their door locks. If it is him, he’s playing innocent refreshingly well.

Kix’s mug sports a deceptively innocent white label, stark black words. ‘An Enablement of Mindfulness in the Here and Now’ it reads, as if that means literally anything whatsoever. The ‘pad Jesse’s using to analyze their door is labeled ‘Platform of Expression for the Previously Disenfranchised’.

Sloppy, Kix thinks. They already used ‘disenfranchised’ on something else. A jar of disinfecting wipes behind the toilet, if he remembers right. The DC-7 hidden next to it had been labeled simply ‘Vod…’ and a hand-drawn disturbed face down the front of the holster where it wouldn’t catch any of the clasps or the blaster itself.

It was the same for two of the other blasters they’d found between Kix and Jesse’s room and their attached refresher. They only found three total. Some brightness to this otherwise annoying day, Kix supposes. He can still hide things from nosy vod’ikase1 in a shipboard two person officer’s dorm. Didn’t even _check_ the mattress corners for snaps, the amateurs.

“Looks like there was scheduled maintenance,” Jesse finally proclaims. “The logs reset.” Force give him _karking strength_!

“They’re scheduling maintenance real often, aren’t they?” Kix asks mildly. He sips his caff. Somehow it tastes worse in a defiled mug.

Jesse grins. “Every day it looks like,” he confirms. “Must need lots of maintenance, our door.”

Kix breathes slowly. Sips his caff. The door locking mechanism on the inside of their room is labeled ‘Initial Bulwark to Stymie Potential Interlopers’. Damn Kix hates his brothers.

“This is never going to end, is it,” he asks hopelessly.

“Not til the galaxy runs out of sticky flimsi at any rate.”

“I hate every one of you,” Kix proclaims. Jesse reaches over, carefully scratches at a corner of the label on his mug and peels it off. “I hate you less,” Kix allows. Jesse grins.

“Just give in, vod,” he says, far too merry for the situation. “this isn’t worth it.”

Kix grunts. He’s right, darn him. He flips on his wrist comm, connects to Cpl Hevy.

It’s Domino, of course it’s Domino.

“I want the label maker,” Kix says as soon as the connection completes.

“‘Fraid I don’t know what you mean,” Cpl Hevy lies. Kix doesn’t have the patience for this.

“I agree to your karking terms you miserable rear ends of a bantha,” he snaps. “But I want the label maker _and_ for you to stop breaking into my karking room.”

There is a whispered discussion in the background. “That is acceptable,” the Cpl comes back with. His voice is infuriatingly smug. Kix doesn’t know who on Domino was the ring leader here, but a leader must protect his squad: Cpl Hevy’s next scheduled checkup is going to be _memorable_. “Leave the mythosuar on Deck 8, on top of the emergency fire suppression panel tonight during second shift. The label maker will be in the same place before first shift.”

“I gotta know Hevy,” sings Jesse. He’s crowded up into Kix’s personal space like he belongs there, casually commandeers Kix’s wrist. “With all the time you spent breaking in here, why didn’t you karking morons just steal the damn mythosuar? It’s literally right there.”

The day Kix confiscated the damn thing, he stuck it up on a shelf in their dorm and there it sat. Kix can see it from where he’s standing in the doorway.

The silence on comms is startled and sheepish.

“I hate every force-damn one of you karking morons,” Kix decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Little brothers. Back  
> How many blasters does Kix have in his room? Nobody gets to know that.
> 
> Why is there a blaster behind the toilet? Simple. _Kix_ isn’t going to be someone who dies on the crapper, no sir.


	6. Frosty Frolicking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, Marines have time to waste too.

“I am going to unzip this tent flap,” Keller hums really, he thinks, very pleasantly. “And whichever human equivalent of a zit in an ass crack is making noise on the other side of this tent flap is going to have a _very_ unfortunate day.”

Keller’s Commander makes _that_ sound, that deep-chest one that is the equivalent of cackling. Keller hates him, and hates his stupid karking hobo beard for good measure.

“We have a guest,” the Commander calls back as if he can’t read enough Force-forsaken Galactic Basic to know what kind of trash o’clock the chrono must be reading right now. Keller doesn’t know. He refuses to check. It’ll make him lose his temper.

“Throw it out,” Keller snaps back and there’s a shuffling that sounds _nothing at all_ like the man opening the outer flaps and tipping whichever vermin scrambled in shebs over bucya back into the first soggy snow drift that forms.

“He’s nicer than he sounds,” his Commander instead flagrantly lies.

“Usually,” he hears Krestor correct, a little more truthful. He still sounds _far_ too amused for this poisonous time of night.

Keller slams into a robe, and slams into some socks, and slams out into barely climate-controlled common circle his door shares with his current least favorite CCs. “Throw. It. Out,” he snarls. “In pieces if you have to. I have the requisite equipment.”

“Hi Commander!”

Keller’s new least favorite trooper waves. Keller hates his stupid karking shiny grin, and his flopsy hair for good measure.

“ _Out_ ,” Keller repeats and if he hadn’t said the word himself he’d have mistaken it as the guttural rumbling of something eldritch and pissed off. Ice cold wind seeps in through the seams in the command staff’s tent and pricks goosepimples up his bare ankles. Krestor, the witless heathen, hasn’t even bothered to put on a shirt. He’s propped himself up against his own tent’s frame like a garbage holonovella star, all low slung blacks and gently wafting hair. Is his air flap open back in his wing of this rubbish tent? Keller’s going to kill him: they share a karking canvas wall and it’s a whelping bitch to heat!

Keller hates his karking shiny chest. If his nipples freeze off, Keller will replace them eventually because he’s a Force-damn karking professional but he will institute a _multi-hour_ slide presentation on frostbite. _With pictures._

Keller needs a cigarette.

He steps over the spill of detritus strewn in front of the Commander’s tent entrance and slams around the shelves and cabinets until he finds where he’s hidden a pack. Behind him, the Commander helps the kid gather up his crap and stuff it back in a seizure-colored knobbly ruck that looks like it was meant to go with his fingerless gloves. Whoever made them had murder on the mind. Keller can relate.

He lights up. It’s one of the more herbal ones he’s come across. Usually soothing. Keller catches sight of the chrono above the comm terminal. The cigarette isn’t at all soothing.

“Was there something you needed?”

“Besides ambushing the Marine in his own quarters,” Krestor offers. “Which I’m pretty sure is treason.”

“Kark the Marine,” Keller mutters. “You could have ambushed away and I wouldn’t have cared.” He tips a censuring eye at the kid, and said kid does a nearly admirable job of pretending he isn’t overly concerned. “I would have still shot you,” Keller really feels the need to clarify. The kid’s grin is a brittle sort of plastoid. _Good_. “But instead you woke me up. And now you’ll have to suffer before I shoot you.”

“No one will shoot you,” the Commander soothes. Lies. Keller will shoot him. Watch.

“Isn’t it still ‘hanging’ for treason?” Krestor wonders. Barbarian.

“Tat’ka,” the Commander interrupts loudly. He’s learned that Keller and Krestor can go for hours, unchecked. “What did you need?” As if whatever it is that’s clearly not ‘Seps are coming over the wall’ will be enough to change Keller’s stance on this whole matter.

“It’s Fullfall!” the kid chirps.

Well. What do you know. Keller _can_ change his stance on the matter.

“I’m not going to shoot him,” he tells Krestor companionably. “I’m going to gut him.”

“Fullfall is tomorrow, kid.”

“ _Fullfall_ ,” Keller feels he must establish, “is _canceled_.”

“Fullfall is not canceled,” the Commander promptly undermines.

“I am the medic. I get final say on which idiotic 'gallivanting in snow banks til your fingernails blacken and drop off and you are simultaneously suffering from hypothermia and dehydrated' is canceled. And this one is. _No one_ ,” Keller thunders, “will be projectile expelling their soggy sinuses in _my_ med bay tonight.”

“Fullfall isn’t canceled.”

“And it’s not til tomorrow,” Krestor adds unhelpfully.

“The front rolled in early,” the kid chimes. “It’s already starting to stick. Fullfall,” he says like he’s quoting a reg, “is celebrated within the _first_ 24 hours after a full ground-covering snowfall.”

“‘Celebrated’,” Keller sniffs. “You mean ‘endured’.”

Krestor giggles like a tubie. Keller hates his rolling karking voice.

“It’s Bossi, isn’t it?” Keller’s Commander just ups and decides to ignore his Medic Commander and his Battalion Commander. He’s been doing that more and more lately, as they’ve both gotten more and more comfortable with well -

“Aw come on Commander, don’t _name_ him, we’ll never get rid of him now,” Krestor jokes and goes to start caff.

\- dragging the hell out of him.

“Don’t start the caff,” Keller grouches. Starting the caff means the day is starting too, and that chrono is no less vomitous.

Krestor starts the caff, and he loads his scoop extra heavy and brews it extra dark exactly the way no one but him can tolerate. The damn sludge stands up in the carafe. It’s like he knows Keller is going to be sneaking a canister of grounds into his bunk in three days for a Windfall gift so he can afford to be exorbitant. Keller huffs at his cigarette, annoyed. He should sneak him tea, would serve him right.

“Aw,” the kid, Bossi, whines. He’s one of the very few shinies the Commander came back with, some sort of specialist track the longnecks were secretly playing with. Doesn’t seem to have panned out: Keller’s never heard of a BO- designation before the Commander dropped BO-661 on them. He’s held his own, and that’s all that matters. All that mattered. After all, Keller is going to kill him. He sips resentfully at bitter caff in between hits of his cigarette. “Commander Bacara!” the kid persists. “Are you really gonna make me ask?”

There’s some banthashit they’re teaching the shinies these days. They can make their eyes huge and wavering and all that nonsense. Keller won’t have it for a minute. Keller’s Commander is a sap.

“Ask?”

“Don’t engage him,” Keller mourns. “Get _rid_ of him.”

Krestor bumps his shoulder in solidarity. He does absolutely nothing to stop this impending mag-rail pile-up.

Bossi sighs from his chest. “Commander,” he complains. “I wanna be on your Fullfall team!”

What.

Krestor sneeze-cough-gargle-chokes on his caff. Keller loses his cigarette in his.

“I made sure to get here the _second_ it started piling up,” the kid rambles on, entirely oblivious. “ _Nobody_ was gonna beat me to it. Woulda camped outside your door til reveille to make _absolutely_ certain.” He straightens; his eyes go hard. “ _Jark_ definitely absolutely cheated on his Firstfall snowvod,” he snaps. “The inside of it was all mud, anyone with _anything_ inside their bucket could see that. There was _not_ enough frost on the ground to make one six inches high. But they said he won. And now I have to crush him.”

He blinks up those great big shiny eyes. The Commander is a blank-faced unreadable, even to Keller. If Keller were a betting man, he’d put credits on ‘incredulous’. That’s sure as hell what Keller’s feeling, at least.

Commander Bacara. In a _Fullfall fight_? What the kark was rolled in that cig?

“Please please please, Commander,” Bossi barrels on. “You gotta let me join, I’ll keep up I promise.”

“Kid…” Krestor tries and comes up empty. Keller relates. Never in two years of tolerating this bone-headed, void-brained, duracrete-bucketed symptom of Marine insanity (‘morale’, the Commander sighs every single time. ‘Marine morale building’.) has Keller been nearly as stunned as this moment.

No, not even when some intrepid Marine first declared the First Snowfall a Marine holiday and promptly challenged everyone in sight to build snowvode with the scrapes of dusting. (There were, expectedly, far more unrealistic depictions of twigs-and-berries than there were snowvode. Keller is surrounded by _t_ _ubies_.)

Keller’s Commander rests a hand on the kid’s shoulder. He takes a breath. He stops. He looks at Keller and Krestor.

_He looks at Keller and Krestor_.

“No,” Keller snaps immediately.

“You’re joking,” Krestor wheezes.

Commander Bacara looks at his Medic Commander and his Battalion Commander. His eyes wrinkle ever so slightly in the corners. The last time Keller saw his Commander this disgustingly amused, he’d just gotten done bawling him out for deciding to punch half the karking Seppie army bare-fisted.

“ _No_ ,” Keller snaps and wields a quelling finger for good measure. He hates his Commander’s stupid karking smile lines above his stupid hobo beard.

* * *

“Oi, where’s that Stun Flare of yours?”

Jark’s got himself all stuffed up like a dressed poultry, nose turned up far enough into the air he’s a storm or two from drowning in the snow. “Can’t imagine who you might be meaning,” he sneers like he’s anything more than a half measure of piss and pickle juice.

“Aw can it, vod,” Blunt laughs. “You been tuggin’ at that kid’s thigh pouch for a karkin’ season.”

Jark clacks his tongue off the back of his teeth and gives Blunt’s face a shove that sends him cackling and howling like one of the skinny things that slinks around the edge of camp after dark. It’s cold enough to freeze a man’s bobbles to the inside of his lowers, but the Dogs bounce around like it’s a spring day. Sharp thinks it does his gut good to see it.

“Off, Blunt,” Sharp orders. “Not none of your business which pocket the man keeps his flares in.” The Dogs hoot and holler. Jark snarls play at the lot of em.

“Go find yerself a stock and sit on it,” he gripes, and hell if he didn’t earn every one of the slaps to the bonce he gets for it.

“Still though,” Fixer’s insisting. “He was all excited for Fullfall. His _first_ you know.” He’s balder than a chemilizard egg but he’s never let his lack of eyebrows stop him from waggling the top half of his forehead. _Him_ , Sharp smacks himself. Idiot.

“He knows where both his boots are and which foot goes where. He’ll be here or he won’t,” Jark shrugs. Not a Dog is fooled, and neither are any of the ground pounders they all run with now. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and slouches so as to not look like he’s glancing back to dorms every other second. “We gonna get this sortie running? I got a two-fer to win.”

This time it’s the old guard Marines that heckle and the Dogs dish it right back. It’s the first full snowfall of this cycle: brings the competitive right out, wild things in the bright white morning. The scuffs and scuffles are steam blowing, vice steam building up to explode. Damn Marines now how to unwind, be it back-alley or back-country.

Don’t mean the Dogs won’t feed ‘em their snow, though. Isn’t anything but natural the way they fall into teams. Isn’t anything but natural the way they chase each other off to distance with frosty little powderballs of ammunition

The Dogs claim a ridge and head for high ground to dig in.

“Really did think he’d be here. How’d you run him off?”

“Blunt, ever wonder why nobody ever thought to name you ‘Breaks’?”

“Never once.”

“Try pumping yours.”

“Oh _baybee_ at least buy me a -”

Sharp’s spinning but Blunt’s already gone.

“The kark-” Jark’s next, Fixer not far behind. Snow under boots give way and they topple cussing and clawing into a slide-trap that sure as Kamino is damp was _not_ there when they scoped this out last night.

The tree shakes loose ice white netting in a shower of dust and there’s frozen fibers slapping right under Sharp’s nose.

And there he is, Jark’s Stun Grenade howling a war cry that would put any Dog to shame, kicking up powder with that artillery Commander in his wake.

And there he is behind them both, the Dogs’ new guiding hand. Commander Bacara himself, following up the hollering duo bowling down on them with arms of snowballs.

Sharp’s got himself no fear, but he’s got himself a half a flask of common karking sense.

“Retreat! Regroup!”

Except there’s no retreat.

Snow smacks his ear. Their rear’s blocked by the single vod armed with a pile of balls and a slingshot. He’s the most pissed off vod to ever wear med whites.

Sharp finds he’s got himself one fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstfall: The first dusting of snow on the ground. Marines compete to build the best snowvode they can.  
> Fullfall: The first big snow-ball-fightable snow fall. Marines do precisely what the description suggests.  
> Windfall: Three days after Fullfall. More on that later :D
> 
> For: Cmon, Sol, Lady, GB and Jazz who shamelessly enabled. And for Spoofymcgee who rightly wanted to know why Bacara was always sad.


	7. Get Down Mr. Grievous

The after-action brief rolls on into its third hour.

It’s been just long enough past the last break that Crys is starting regret just how many times he topped off his caffcup. The snacks have all been picked over and all that’s left is one mostly-squashed pastry of dubiously green flavoring, and the last half of a cinnaroll no one wants to be the one to finish. And caff.

Crys cup is dry and his eyelids are heavy. Getting up for a refill by itself would be worthwhile, just the moving alone. But then he’d _get more caff_ and would sit back down to this interminable brief with _more caff_ and he’s already coming fairly close to uncomfortable.

… he could get caff anyway. Doesn’t mean he has to drink – who is he fooling. If the caff is there, Crys is going to drink it.

He could drink it. And then, later, if he was especially desperate, excuse himself.

…

No. The mockery doesn’t bear thinking about. He's still getting _classy lady_ puns a year and several other drunken declarations later. Best not to risk it.

Waxer shifts around to put his chin on his other fist. He’s not an officer, not even head of any unit: there really isn’t a reason for him to be here. But here he is propping up Boil’s far side, eyes stretched wide open through willpower alone. Crys’ own water in sympathy. Boil himself is only upright _because_ of Waxer, pressed shoulder to the Sgt’s shoulder and wavering each time his head drifts down and snaps back up.

Still, they’re both doing better than Davijaan. _He_ is absolutely, definitely asleep, eyes open or not.

It’s a sentiment shared around the table, from Engineering’s Engle scratching notes Crys is entirely sure has nothing to do with the General’s brief, to Medical’s Bore doing exactly the same but eight times as alarming. They’re all doing what they need to, to get through, Crys supposes. He makes a note to avoid both Medical and Engineering for the next little while. They both look far too viciously pleased with whatever they’re writing.

Waxer swaps hands again, resettles his chin on his right fist. His left hand drops to the table, a barely-audible thump, and taps silently.

That right hand? Under his chin? It’s gently curled, fingers open from the palm. It’s a completely innocuous, _very particular_ gesture.

He wouldn’t dare. _In a briefing_?!

Crys doesn’t know who came up with the game.

He has his suspicions of course. He’s a Lieutenant and even if he’s no Scout, he’s expected to be observant. He has pulse enough of the workings of Ghost to know when the game first started shuddering through the ranks, and from where it started.

This was an entirely officer-produced mayhem. Troopers would not have dared. Crys thinks. Hopes. Would want to believe. (Except Ghost Company is packed to the vents with Personalities, and rank has held less and less meaning the longer this war rolls on. Still. Crys has to hope.) Troopers maybe wouldn't have dared, and the vode who lead Ghost's Scouts have a _reputation_ for prodding merrily at the edges of propriety.

Boil immediately does the same, right hand curled around an imaginary hilt. Those two -

Barlex follows, because there’s never trouble that Boil finds that his batchmate is far behind and there’s never waters that Waxer leaps into that Boil isn’t pulled along. Crys has always admired their shiny set, those three.

Crys copies the gesture.

… what? He’s been at the bottom of _this_ particular vodpile far too often for his tastes, kark everything quite kindly. And he’s quite secure in the fact that he didn’t start it.

Commander Davijaan, unblinking, still quite clearly snoring, curls his right hand into an open fist. Engle switches their stylus to their left, cups their right hand ever so casually. By the time Crys looks at Bore, he’s got his own stylus balanced atop his own cupped hand.

And then. It’s like a miracle, like sun breaking through Kamino clouds, like a Venator dropping out of hyperspace to back you up. General Kenobi doesn’t for even a moment pause his brief. But he raises his hand to rub at his beard.

His right hand. Curled, like he’s holding a lightsaber.

That just leaves one. One last person who hasn’t noticed, who is the only one in the room not miming holding a lightsaber.

“ _Hello There General Kenobi!_ ” vode from Commander to Sgt, to High General, howl as one. They leap.

Commander Cody is bowled right out of his seat. He goes down with a shriek Crys prays one of the Scouts was recording.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One Ghost mimes holding a lightsaber. As soon as you notice, you do the same. The last person to notice is the Grievous. The Grievous is promptly dogpiled by every other Ghost, and everyone yells 'Hello There General Kenobi'.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] The Logistics of Inter-System Transit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433752) by [lalabob11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalabob11/pseuds/lalabob11)
  * [Braid and Abet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28008696) by [Papook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papook/pseuds/Papook)




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